


Victims of Circumstance - 2/20 – Ghosts and Mirrors

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-05
Updated: 2008-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2. This is a <b><span>sequel</span> </b>to <i>Any Other Night</i>, which is a <b><span>sequel</span></b> to <i>Broken Glass.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 2/20 – Ghosts and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/), my lovely beta.

** Teaser:  ** _Sylar had never thought to draw the line between them in terms of the sheltered idealist living in this beautiful, exotic world and the poor urban cynic who had been dealt a harsher hand in life._

 

.2 Ghosts and Mirrors

 

           Sylar had never been one to sleep in, and as a result of the time difference combined with a long flight nipping at the back of his mind, he had gotten up even earlier in the morning than he might have normally. The room had contributed to that, too, as its heat sweltered like the sun itself had taken up residence within long before rising in the east. Sylar chose to take advantage of the early hours, however, and had pulled a chair over to the open window to sit quietly in wait of that roommate.

           Wearing only his boxers and the sweat that slicked his skin, Sylar felt more at ease with a cooler morning breeze coming through, and he closed his eyes to the feeling. Was it five in the morning? Six? When did the sun rise here? It wasn’t worth moving to check his watch.

           More than the breeze, Sylar felt the pulse of life. He listened carefully to the sounds of the city waking along with him, reveling in the noise of thousands of stirring bodies, stirring winds, stirring leaves, so soon to be touched by morning light. Of all his abilities, this hearing must have been the one he treasured most regularly.

           Another body, the most important of any of them, might rise soon too. Sylar twisted himself in his seat, opening his eyes again to gaze across the room. The red of approaching dawn was passing through the window, making Mohinder’s figure seem to glow in its earthy light. A smile teased at Sylar’s lips and he stood slowly, crossing the room to stand next to Mohinder’s bed with a curious gaze.

           The night before Mohinder had hardly said a word before he too had stripped down to his boxers and peeled away all but one sheet from the bed to sleep. The agitation Mohinder so overtly displayed and then denied in words was nagging at Sylar in return, but he had let it go in favor of not starting a fight with Mohinder. They had almost had one of those in London over a small display of Sylar’s power in public, and the vehemence with which Mohinder had spoken to him gave Sylar more of a start than he cared to admit.

           The two of them had only just begun this journey together; even though it had been a month or so at best, Sylar was not yet ready to end such a new and endearing adventure with this man. He learned something new about Mohinder every day, he was sure, and he wanted to keep doing so for a long while yet. Though Mohinder had not been explicit about what they were going to do in Chennai, Sylar kept his suspicions private and his mouth shut, waiting to see how this new and unexplored mix of paranoia, stoicism, and snippiness would play out in the Indian man. Anything new about Mohinder that Sylar could catalogue away in the recesses of his mind was worth the gameplay. 

           Tilting his head slowly to the side, Sylar puckered his lips thoughtfully as he watched Mohinder’s bare chest rise and fall slowly with his breaths. His dark skin glistened with dampness, too, an arm thrown up beside and over his head, struggling to keep those heat-producing limbs as far apart as possible in this temperature. Sylar admired the way Mohinder’s dark curls clung to his forehead and the side of his face, wondering if he would be the one sweating out the India weather while Mohinder adjusted again nicely in a day or so. 

           Leaning down, Sylar touched a finger cautiously to the side of Mohinder’s face. He dragged it slowly across the skin, listening closely to the catch of the groves on his finger pads against Mohinder’s stubble. What he wouldn’t give to touch the man more, to leave wet kisses in his wake against wet skin and give Mohinder a real heat to wake up to this morning. Biting down on the inside of his lower lip, Sylar swallowed, breath catching at the thought. He narrowed his eyes. This was one of the few times he feared stepping over that boundary.     

            Mohinder woke to sunlight striking his eyelids and the sound of water. He took in a deep, sleepy breath, and could have sworn he’d inhaled something solid in the process; the humidity was thick and heavy in the room. When he rolled over to squint at the open bathroom door he felt the sheets peel back from his skin like a damp swimsuit. He wrinkled his nose at the discomfort.

            Only Sylar’s back in profile could be seen from where Mohinder lay, but from the running water and the way his spine bent towards the mirror hidden from view, Mohinder judged that the man was putting a razor to flesh. Ever since their exchange after a shaving in Iowa Mohinder had never been able to look at the process the same again, and now he watched what movements he could make out from the bed, mind drifting back to that time. He had thought things were all too complicated then, taking Sylar as a lover freely, whispering intimate words in the heat of the moment.

            How very wrong he had been to think that would be the most complicated part.

            Mohinder ran a hand through his curls, pulling back the sticky ones from his face with a small sigh. Leaving the country with Bennet’s blessing had been hard enough, and managing their finances well enough to stay in England for a few weeks had been even harder, in spite of the fun they’d managed to have. (And when was the last time Mohinder could say he had fun? Sylar was a strangely adorable tourist at times, and Mohinder hadn’t returned to England since his graduate study days). 

           But this situation… this was far more challenging a turn of events. Mohinder knew that they couldn’t keep on the run, that they needed money, and even more than that, Mohinder needed a real laboratory if he was going to continue his work. The only way he could see himself accomplishing that goal had to begin with going home and settling his accounts in India. He hadn’t touched his inheritance from his father yet, and in truth hadn’t intended to. It was blood money, in an unusual sense of the word. Now that he’d taken his father’s killer into his bed, the stain of murder on that currency seemed especially vivid in Mohinder’s mind.

           Even bringing Sylar home, to the halls he knew as his father’s, the world that had driven him and Chandra apart as father and son, seemed like an unbearable sin. He didn’t want to watch his mother smile at the man who had taken away her husband, ignorant to the world of pain Mohinder felt when he so much as let his father and Sylar slip into the same realm of thoughts in his mind. Closing his eyes again, Mohinder laid back against the sheets in frustration, tossing an arm over his eyelids. It was unavoidable, now. They’d come this far because they had to, and Mohinder could not simply dump the man off anywhere he liked until his business here was done. 

           That didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t pointedly ignore Sylar as though he were anyone else and make clear the boundaries he was about to place the man within. Mohinder would prefer, even given these circumstances, to keep these worlds as far apart as possible. He wanted Sylar to be, when he stood before his mother, a passing acquaintance that merely had to tag along, whom Mohinder could leave in the house (hopefully locked away in a room) for the few days he planned to stay in Chennai while he settled his affairs and decided where they’d head to next.

           “Plenty of cold water.” Sylar’s voice invaded Mohinder’s jumbled thoughts. He stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing a touch of lotion over his now smooth and stubble-free features. “Once you’re ready to drag yourself out of bed, that is.” Sylar wandered back to the window, peeking outside to the street, where people and small automobiles were beginning to congest the narrow roads. He cast a covert glance over at Mohinder as the man sat up finally, pulling himself from the mattress. Sylar watched as Mohinder touched his bare feet to the floor, his back to Sylar and the window. His shoulder blades tensed, palms against the sheets. A brief silence passed before Mohinder spoke.

           “We’re going to my home today. We’ll stay there for a few days while I sort some financial things out.” Mohinder spoke the words flatly, as though with disinterest.

           Turning his body towards Mohinder, Sylar’s eyes narrowed a little. He stared at the man’s back, wishing he could see what sort of expression he held. There was such cold tension beneath every word that Sylar felt almost surprised by it; by Mohinder’s ability to produce such an unsympathetic tone. In the past even his anger had been layered with deeper emotion.

           “Your home?” Sylar echoed, walking forward so that he stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Will your mother be there?” It seemed like the only logical question to ask, now. He heard Mohinder’s heart speed up faintly.

            “Yes.”

            Sylar reached across to touch Mohinder’s shoulder, but as soon as the fingers grazed his skin Mohinder stood and made his way to the bathroom. 

            “Get ready to go.” he added before shutting the door behind himself.

            Sylar’s eyelids twitched from the sound of the lock on the other side. He felt keenly how Mohinder was shutting him out; closing the door between them for this part of their travel. It irritated him beyond belief, but for now Sylar held his tongue, trying to be understanding of Mohinder’s moods. Trying.

            On the other side of the door, Mohinder pressed a palm over his eyes. Telling himself he could get through the next few days with his sanity seemed overly optimistic. If he was to keep the thoughts of Sylar as a murderer as distant from himself as possible, their closeness as lovers had to dissipate as well. Only Mohinder had never handled lovers, let alone one such as this, skillfully before. He had all the words to explain the world, but not to cope with the confusing matters of a relationship. If he hadn’t wise words, it was best not to say anything in favor of something stupid or conflict-causing, so Mohinder had said little to nothing once more.

            In fact, he spoke so little up until he and Sylar walked the streets of Chennai an hour later that Sylar was beginning to feel the weight of silence upon them as though this were their first two weeks together. Mohinder walked briskly and skillfully through the shuffling people, no stranger, apparently, to smoothly maneuvering the crowds. Sylar kept up just a step behind, letting the man lead. Once the people began to thin and more residential areas revealed themselves, Sylar finally closed the space between them and stepped up to Mohinder’s side.

            “Mohinder,” he began, touching his fingertips to the elbow of Mohinder’s shirt. Mohinder was wearing a linen material again, now that he was in his home country. Sylar couldn’t complain of the earthy maroon hues the man was now taking on, compared to those gaudy colors of his American shirts. “Look, I know whatever’s going through your head right now must be hard for you, but you have to give me something to go on here. You can’t just ignore me the entire time we’re in India.”

            Something of a twitch seemed to work at the side of Mohinder’s face for a second, and he continued to walk forward, pointedly not looking at Sylar’s scrutinizing eyes. “I’m not ignoring you.” he blatantly lied, words sharp. “I’m just thinking through a lot of things.”

            “So, what? I’m just along for the ride, being your shadow for the next few days?” Sylar frowned, grabbing hold of Mohinder’s arm. “Hey, look at me.”

            Stopping short suddenly, Mohinder’s eyes found Sylar’s, but they were set in a glare. He shrugged off Sylar’s touch abruptly. “More or less. That’s what you have to be. I won’t sugar-coat this for you: you aren’t welcome in my home. You know well enough why. Just be polite and don’t speak with my mother and we’ll be out of Chennai as soon as possible.” The words had come out more caustic perhaps than Mohinder intended, but he couldn’t mask the feelings behind them or use anything but the truth as his weapon. Sylar had not even directly instigated the animosity behind his words; Mohinder’s personal thoughts made him speak more heatedly each time he had to.

           Sylar managed to look offended by that. He knew his crimes, and he knew by Mohinder’s own words that he wasn’t forgiven, but for Mohinder to treat him like less than a friend, even, made him more anxious than anything else. It threatened those things they had already mended. “Mohinder, you’re not being fair. What am I supposed to do? Run if she tries to speak with me? Lock myself in a room and wait for you to call? Don’t be ridiculous!”

           “No, you listen to me, Sylar. You don’t have any right- not here- to tell me what is and isn’t fair. So you’ll do as I ask, and then we’ll be leaving as soon as possible. Understand?” Mohinder’s voice carried a sharpness and intensity Sylar dared not, at the moment, challenge. The force behind it threw Sylar’s thoughts back to duct tape and chairs, and the final shot that might have ended them the first time. Sylar fell silent. Mohinder began to walk again.

            Soon enough they came upon a long white wall of painted stone that guided the edges of the street, ending around the corner with an archway opening and iron bars painted white. Mohinder paused before the gate, letting his hand rest over a lock that was already undone in wait for him.

            “I think you should sleep in the guest room,” was all that he said.

           Sylar caught his tongue before it ran away in protest. He knew what that meant.

           Mohinder pushed open the gate and stepped within, making his way down a graveled path towards what appeared to be a rather large house. Sylar was tempted to think of it more as a complex, simply because it stretched wider than it was tall, and the architecture, simple but so very elegant in its design, made it seem to stand almost like a temple to him. He had read books, but in truth knew nothing substantial of the subtle arches and soft pillar-like forms to the architecture of a wealthy man’s house in a country like this. The very design seemed to simultaneously reach towards the heavens but stretch wide and open for invitation, hardly barring the inside from the out. Sylar enjoyed it instantly and immensely, and he walked slowly past the charming plants and foliage in the yard. Though it was not a terribly eccentric design, nor even stereotypically what he might think of as ‘Indian,’ that Mohinder’s home was new and foreign to him made a thousand times more impact on Sylar as he soaked in the details. 

           Something came to him, and at once a small smile made its way on his lips; this was a terribly poignantly reminder of the difference in their backgrounds. Mohinder’s family had been well-off here in India. Sylar might have only guessed that from the naive way Mohinder held himself in the beginning of their faux friendship. Sylar had never thought to draw the line between them in terms of the sheltered idealist living in this beautiful, exotic world and the poor urban cynic who had been dealt a harsher hand in life. The thought amused Sylar for all its foibles.

            Sylar was the one to hear the shuffle of hurried footsteps first, and he looked up to the wooden doors of the main entrance as Mohinder reached for the knob. It pulled open before he could grasp it, and in its place stood a shorter woman with a broad smile on her face.

            “Mohinder. Welcome home.” she stated simply, reaching hands up towards the dark man to grasp his face. Mohinder leaned down in kind, a soft expression on his features as he embraced her. Mohinder’s mother kissed his forehead as he hugged her, and he murmured a soft ‘I missed you, Mother,’ in her ear.

            Standing on the broad step behind them, Sylar couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. He thought of his own mother, of her small, feeble body reaching to hug him, murmuring prayers of thanks that her Gabriel had come home. He had once reluctantly loved the way she seemed to sigh a world of relief to see him every time, reveled secretly in the way she’d touched his hair in the affectionate way Mohinder’s own mother smoothed his curls from his eyes and stroked his cheek with a smile. Sylar swallowed, barely noticing his held breath.

            After a moment, he realized his gaze was being met, and the woman had stepped to the side of Mohinder and out the door to face him with a calm smile. “You’ve brought someone with you,” she stated. 

            Mohinder turned and quickly stepped back as well, clearing his throat. Sylar shifted his gaze to watch the nervous flicker of Mohinder’s eyes between them.

            “Mother,” he began, resting a hand on her shoulder. It drew Sylar’s attention to the dark green cloth she wore wrapped elegantly around her frame. “This is a friend of mine from America. …Gabriel. He’s traveling with me for a while. For my research.” 

           The stiffness of the words almost made Sylar question them himself, and he resisted the tic that threatened from the use of his real name. Instead he extended his hand with a polite nod of his head. “A pleasure to meet you,” Sylar murmured.

            Mohinder’s mother, in turn, smiled warmly and took Sylar’s hand in both of hers. “The pleasure is mine. Any friend of Mohinder’s is welcome in my home. I am Anjali. You two come inside; I am preparing lunch soon, and now it will be for three.” She released Sylar’s hand and looked to Mohinder, who seemed to frown a little in return.

            “That’s really alright, Mother. We can go out somewhere. Don’t do extra cooking on our account.” Mohinder seemed to focus in on her as he said these words, making it a point not to look in Sylar’s direction. The message was clear enough, even if Mohinder wanted to be subtle. The anxiety he felt in this situation was winning out over whatever cunning he hoped to have.

            “Nonsense, Mohinder,” Anjali replied dismissively, her own gaze firm in return. “Why don’t you and Gabriel take your things inside and I will get some drinks.” It was a statement, not a question. Before Mohinder could protest again, she had lifted the hem of her clothes from the floor and retreated within.

            She was the source of Mohinder’s stubbornness, Sylar realized right away. The source of his unwillingness to be defeated, in spite of how easily she, as a mother, conquered him. There was something about Mohinder’s mother, about Anjali, that Sylar perceived to be the foundation of what this tortured family had been. She had a quiet strength about her, a silent understanding of everything that she saw from those deep eyes. There was some natural, motherly intuition in her mannerisms and comforting touch that Sylar suddenly felt he had been lacking his entire life; a stability his own mother, in her unstable naggings and devout fears, had never had. Sylar liked Anjali immediately.

            “Come on,” Mohinder said curtly, lifting his small suitcase and carrying it inside. He led Sylar within, past a broad main hall and to a smaller one towards the back and to the right. The hall curved around subtly and they followed it until they reached the third door, which Mohinder opened and pushed aside for Sylar. “This is the guest room.”

            Nodding, Sylar glanced to Mohinder’s stern features as he entered, where he found a simple enough bed, clad it dark greens and browns, complemented by a rug and two side tables with lamps. At the far left of the room was a desk and next to it curtained windows that opened up to what looked like a small garden at the end of the house. Sylar stepped inside with a turn in each direction, looking over every detail his eyes happened upon.

           Mohinder watched him for a moment, then gave a quiet sigh through his nose. “My room is further down this hall, at the end. I’m… going to go put my things away.” The unshakable feeling of disaster that hung over his head made Mohinder feel weary, suddenly. He just wanted to sit on the edge of his bed and think for a while, as he had many nights that he was here. He had not even been home again since his father’s funeral, and to return with Sylar made the experience many more times emotionally complex.

           As Mohinder left the room, Sylar walked over to the small desk that sat in the far corner next to the patio windows. There was blank stationery sitting out, a holder of pens, several picture frames of a burnished gold color, and an oval mirror that hung above them all. Sylar let his eyes scan over each framed photo, recognizing only one face among them: Chandra Suresh. A younger Chandra, with his professional suit, professional smile, and professional handshake. With the happy expression that hoped for great things, in the future, and colleagues with similar looks that suggested the great road ahead of him. Sylar itched to turn the frames downward, but instead lifted his gaze up.

           His brown eyes met his own reflection then, and Sylar stared for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. “Look at me now, Chandra,” he murmured quietly, noting how different he was, all styled hair and black button-up shirts that never quite buttoned. He was no longer the awkward, fumbling Gabriel Gray Chandra had met so long ago. He thought back to all the moments of intimate conversation that had passed between himself and the first Doctor Suresh, the talk of hopes and aspirations, neglects and regrets. When Sylar considered the man’s death now, as he stood in his home, as he recalled taking Chandra’s son into his bed weeks before, Sylar couldn’t feel the antipathy of betrayal any longer.

           Everything that had happened before, all the treachery, the lies, the bitterness… it had brought Sylar right to this point, to where he stood. And Sylar wasn’t sure it was such a terrible place to be. So what could he say now, to the spirit of his first personal victim, the first unjustified murder, as he turned his eyes downward to photographs that, like Chandra, would never be given life again?

           A faint smile touched Sylar’s lips, and it was not resentful or cynical. He lifted a frame slowly to his face, staring at a hopeful moment frozen forever in time.

            “Don’t worry, Chandra. I’ll help take him where he’s going. He’s going to change it all.”  



End file.
